My first out-west roadtrip

Thursday morning, 9/9/99 7:45 a.m.--
Here I sit, on a boulder just east of Laramie. The Indians considered this place mystical and holy. Hallowed ground. We can see why. The rock formations here are arranged like the hand of God himself constructed them as a fortress to protect those who seek solitude here. Chipmunks, tails perfectly erect, seem emboldened by the power of the rocks, warding off intruders by their high pitched squeals and thrashing about. Aspens, not daring to present themselves in the open country surrounding us, have taken hold of the valleys in this place. Rabbits are less flighty than found elsewhere, almost daring you to pet them.
And then there are the pines. I’m not sure the kind, but a scraggly, rough, cowboy-type of pine that seem to will themselves into being. Individual and determined, they make their living on nothing but the rock they are gradually splitting open. Only two feet tall, it casts a bold shadow on the landscape below. It lends the fresh split of the rock to prairie grass, and it inspires every living thing to rise up and take root on the essence of life. Living fully, giving to others, making a better place.

Coffee and oatmeal must be the breakfast of the gods, for I feel it today. Rising up before dawn, we witness the creation of a new day. Stars set high above us, we see the pre-dawn reds appear over the vast prairie and begin to light up the magnificent rock around us. Then a subtle wind rises through the trees, birds awaken to sing, chipmunks sound off, and rabbits rustle about. It is a dawn of a new day-a new world to us. The night out of Tennessee brings us through endless towns all the same. Texaco, Mc Donald’s, Super 8. Texaco, Mc Donald's, Super 8. A subtle change begins after crossing the sluggish Mississippi. Missouri, Iowa, and Nebraska pass before us with buttes, canals, prairies full of beef cattle and horses, farmlands and farmers harvesting, dust clouds and terraced hills-sculpted by cattle and bison thousands strong years ago. The Missouri and the Platte rivers, the Oregon Trail and Pony Express each crisscross our path. Then we reach the promised land. Wyoming. We pass by the visitors centers because something inside tells us this voyage is our own. Not another’s already plotted out, highlighting their favorites. This is our adventure, as Lewis and Clark had done long ago.

"There! Over there! Antelope!", my sister cries out. The sight will burn forever in my mind as clear as this sunny day. Pronghorn antelope, maybe a dozen in two seperate groups, were grazing on top of a knoll. Many more followed. Scores of them emerging at the beginning of the end of a long day.

Awake by sheer willpower after 23 ½ hours on the road, we decide the first exit with a campsite would be the resting spot for the night. So here I sit on this massive boulder in Vedauwoo, warming in the morning sun, and overlooking our campsite, our sunrise, our dreams becoming reality. The rock I sit on, as the rock surrounding us here, appears to be of a crushed pink quartz in a cement-like gray mixture, with gold and lime colored lichen clinging to it. This must give the florescent color to the rock at rise and set of the sun. And now, off to do the dishes.